Forgotten Lore
by Sapsorrow86
Summary: In a world quickly loosing magic an imp finds itself old, alone and forgotten. Luckily for him loneliness attracts loneliness. Based on the prompt: Follow me into the dark for Tumblr's Rumbelle Secret Santa in July 2015.
1. Chapter 1

He had loved the old country. Dreadful weather, which he liked, grey and morose more often than not, raining on a good day and pouring on a bad one, and in winter the cold winds were merciless. He had liked breathing in the cold air, feeling his chest hurt from it, his keen sense of smell able to discern the faint traces of sea water from the far-away coast. Near his well, the place he'd made his own, he could see, in the distance, a road, and sometimes people would cross it, quickening their steps when they raised their heads to peer at the copse of trees that was his home. He'd take pride in that, in the fear that would flicker through their eyes, in the shortening of their breath and the slight trembling of their frame.

Every once in a while, if someone was desperate enough to run the risk, they'd drop a coin down his well. Copper most of the time, common and coarse and bad-tasting, but it got his attention. Beside the well they would leave their real offering, sometimes livestock, sometimes a part of the crop, sometimes a bottle of whiskey or whatever else the poor soul could get their hands on. Sometimes a hide or a fur, or even wooden carvings or homespun ornaments, whatever thought could catch his fancy. And if it did, if it proved to be interesting enough or tempting enough, if it looked like he had been gifted the best of the new lambs or the tastiest of the cheeses, and if he was in a giving mood, he would grant their request. The magic he wielded was modest enough, like all imps, but his cunning made the most of it. All it took was a well-placed nudge with his magic for entire kingdoms to topple, for lives to be ruined or saved. Though sometimes he acquiesced to help the innocent souls it was those who sought revenge the ones whose prayers down the well were answered the most. He'd loved wrecking a bit of havoc, sometimes even turning harmless little requests into pain and heartache for everyone involved.

He had also loved when war came upon the land and the field near his well would be covered in blood. He'd visit the battlefield at night, picking up interesting mementos and dipping his fingers into pools of blood to draw nonsensical patterns into trees and rocks. Sometimes, if he was hungry enough, he'd drink it, though he personally found lamb's blood to be much more tasty, not to mention that human flesh was so gamy he never partook of it. People around those parts knew not to approach a bloodied battlefield while the mist still rolled over it, lest they displease him by interrupting his fun.

He had lost count of how many years he had lived thus. It all blurred together in his head, bloody and free and glorious. But at some point things had changed, so gradually he hadn't noticed it at first. If he began noticing less offerings he dismissed the notion, or if he saw people walking closer to his cop of trees he thought it a rare event, some foreigner who was not made aware of the evil lurking in the woods. But soon he grew hungry enough to hunt for necessity rather than sport and even so he grew weaker each day, his magic diminishing without the offerings and sacrifices left for him. Though humans had tried over the centuries to eradicate him with fire, iron, salt and prayers he'd laughed at their attempts and fed on their violence and the stench of fear about them. He had thought nothing could ever get the best of him.

But one day he was confronted with the notion he wasn't feared anymore. Or even believed in. Parents didn't sit their young down to seriously lecture them on the dangers of the forest anymore, nor did they seek him out when they were brought low and desperate and no earthly power could help them. The village itself became underpopulated as more and more people from the younger generations went away in search of employment or adventure in some of the larger human settlements he'd steered clear of for centuries.

Even the air changed. It became heavier, unclean, poisonous to his lungs, itchy on his skin. Though around his dominion there were no animals- his mere presence scared them away still- plants had always grown aplenty, most of them twisted vines and thorny shrubs from which many venoms could be made. But as the air grew denser, thick with smoke that reeked of sickness and decay, the soil grew barren and he found himself exposed amidst dead trees and dried-up bushes.

All he had left was his well, beautifully-carved with his own claws, with pretty promises of blood and gore to whoever dared disturbed it written in a language humans did not speak anymore and memories of better times gone by. As his strength diminished he took to curling up inside his well for months at a time, small and frail and forgotten, dreaming of what he'd do to humanity of it deigned to remember him once more, the terrible fear he'd put into their hearts if he could wield even a third of the strength he'd once possessed.

He knew there would come a time when he'd have to make a choice, either to join his brethren and pass on to whatever place their kind went when they lost their place in the world, or to cling to the soil beneath his feet and watch himself slowly disappear until nothing was left. He chose to stay, of course, too stubborn and afraid of change to do anything else, too proud to admit defeat and his hatred, raw and festering and true, kept him together.

When it became clear he was starting to fade, pallor stealing over his green-gold scales and colour leaching from his blackened claws, he climbed atop the tallest tree on the tallest mountain he could find and cautiously sniffed the air, looking for a trace of magic, somewhere where he could survive. After much searching and with desperation clawing at his throat he found a spark, old and fresh at once, ripe for the taking, across the vast ocean he'd glimpsed only once or twice in his long life. With much reluctance the imp found himself stowing into a ship late one night, a heaving mammoth of twisted, cold metal, and many times throughout the journey he thought himself gone, finally wiped out of existence. But it was not to be, out of sheer stubbornness if not anything else, and so he crawled across the new land, nose trained on the promise of a place that smelled like home.

He found it, at last, when he was at the end of his strength. It was a cold place, like back in the old land, they skies often grey and the winters long. The woods were tall and menacing and the people of the nearby town were terrified of them, driven so by old legends of strange happening when the fog rolled thick into the local harbour, people going into the woods never to be seen again, the sound of howling in a place that had no wolves. And in those old legends, in those more mundane fears, without shape or form, merely trappings of human minds, the imp found new nourishment. He found himself a new well, old and abandoned and appropriately covered in vines and dust, and carefully carved runes and warnings on its sides, and though there was no pretending the new world was anything like the old one, it was home.

There were plenty of children on the nearby town, and their puritan heritage made them ripe for scaring. To them he was an apparition on the edge of the woods, a rustle in the dark, a touch of claws on the back of their necks when they ventured into the woods. In their haste to escape him they often dropped something, some trinket or favourite toy or otherwise prized possession. He took them as new offerings and collected them inside a hollowed-out trunk. Some were shiny baubles, pretty when they caught the light just right. Other were wooden carvings or sleek, colourful little trinkets, made from a material that felt foreign to his touch.

He took a different approach with the adults. For them he conjured up images of wolves, the feeling of eyes on them, of uneasiness creeping up their spine like spiders, of anxiety, heavy as it settled across their chest. Some of them still ventured inside for romantic trysts in an abandoned cabin near his well and sometimes simply to run or just walk around. He always made sure to trip them, make the branches of the trees reach out to snag their coats or scratch their skin and shadows flicker in and out of their peripheral vision. Soon his reputation grew and though it wasn't like before, wasn't genuine belief, people began to talk about the Dark One, an entity that children likened to the Boogeyman and adults to modern-day serial killers who might lurk in the woods in search of unsuspecting prey. An adult had once theorized he could be "the Unabomber", whatever that was.

But no matter what parlour tricks he used he remained invisible. Humans looked right through him like he wasn't there, they couldn't hear his mutterings or the grotesque faces he made as they passed him by. Sometimes some child would be able to spot him for a second or two, young humans still holding a strong affinity for make-believe, usually when they were more suggestible. He'd found that on a special day in mid-autumn it was easiest to make himself visible so he gleefully planned all manner of pranks and scares for such a day, telling himself that it was enough. Humans were a nuisance anyhow and so it was good that they couldn't spot him, good that they didn't come to him anymore with their petty, mortal problems and ailments and ready to pay him a pittance in kind.

He liked talking to himself anyhow. It was the only intelligent conversation to be had in any case. And he'd have been quite content to remain thus if some strange creature hadn't fallen asleep in the middle of his favourite clearing. It was a sort of embarrassing secret of his, since the place was bathed in sunshine and the lush, green grass was dotted with wild flowers. Certainly not a place a respectable imp would be caught dead in. But as much as he was supposed to delight in darkness he found it most relaxing to soak up the sun so he'd made himself a little nest in the middle of the clearing out of soft moss where he could stretch out or curl up, depending on his mood, and let his skin bask in the rays of the sun.

He was all set to indulge in his shameful little habit when he found the space occupied by a tiny human. It was sitting smack in the middle of his spot, a large book in its grubby little hands that was surely too advance for its puny little brain. He nudged the thing with his foot, not remembering the last time he'd been so close to a human, but the thing seemed so focused on its book that it didn't feel his phantom touch. It was a new, depressing low in his long life.

Angered more by his helplessness than by anything else he swatted the book out of the wee thing's hands, his claws catching on the binding and tearing it. He expected the little creature to scream and scramble off, maybe leaving the book behind to add to his collection, but all it did was stare at the damn thing lying in the moss and grass, apparently stunned speechless. He hissed, displeased at his utter failure to scare one tiny human from his territory, and turned around, determined to go lick his wounds elsewhere. Maybe even get drunk on the sap of that old, gnarly tree near the south-east border-

"Why did you do that?!"

The thing's voice was shrill, in a knife-to-the-head sort of way, and very strangely-accented from what he'd heard other humans speak in the new world. When he turned to it he saw its eyes were fixed on him, her apparent righteous fury making her cheeks shine a bright red. It would've been funny if he wasn't too stunned by the notion that the human could see him.

 _See him._

He froze up, unsure what to do or say, or even how to feel about it. The tiny human's eyes were leaking, though the rest of it still conveyed immense fury. He tried picturing himself through its eyes, scale and green-gold, covered in leather pants and a roughly-sewn vest, leather cords dangling from his neck, holding talismans and old bones and things he couldn't quite remember anymore, and barefoot. He hoped his hair looked wild and untamed enough to make him look menacing, because he was sure his "gaping fish" expression wasn't cutting it.

"That's my mom's book! It's special!"

He glanced at it, noticing the faded binding and the half-erased letters of the title. It didn't look particularly special to him. But the human picked it up carefully, using a piece of its clothing to wipe the tome clean of moss and dirt. Standing up the thing was still tiny, with a blue dress and a headband in its hair. A female human, if he was not mistaken.

"I ate the last human that spoke to me like that. Slightly roasted. It was delicious."

The imp took the opportunity to show his stained, sharp teeth as he licked his lips, hoping for even a glimmer of fear from the wee girl. Though she did took a step back, book clutched to her chest, she didn't seem to be of a mind to run away like she ought to. No instinct of self-preservation, it seemed.

"You're not very nice."

Her tone was faintly chiding and the look on her face made it seem like she was expecting an apology, which seemed all sorts of ridiculous.

"I can replace the binding, if it'll help. I have pelts left over from children I've skinned."

This did make the little girl flinch and he saw her body ready to bolt, muscles tensing up in preparation for a run. And suddenly, as much as he'd loathed coming across someone in his private oasis, as much as he'd considered it an affront, this wee thing right there was the first person to see him in decades, if not more, and he didn't want to see her go.

"It's a quip." He giggled, as if he was amused by her fear. "Not serious."

He saw her relax ever-so-slightly, her eyes losing some of the wariness as she looked at him intently.

"Who are you?"

In the past whenever a lone, lost human had come across him they'd labelled him a "what", not a "who". Though the former was, he supposed, more accurate, the later felt nicer. And so he felt compelled to do what he'd never before done.

Share his name with a mortal.

"I'm called Rumplestiltskin."

He waved his hands about in a grandiose gesture and threw in a bow for good measure. This seemed to impress the wee girl, who tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled tentatively. She wasn't as ugly when she smiled, even if she was missing a tooth.

"I'm Belle."

The sound of a clock striking the hour in the distance drew her attention and her brow furrowed, as if worried.

"I have to go, my dad's gonna be home soon and I have to be there."

She looked almost apologetic, like she'd sensed his loneliness, his pathetic and crippling need for companionship, and was loath to deny him. He stiffened, drawing himself to his full height. While not impressive it was certainly enough to look imposing in front of a child. Said child, however, didn't look like she was buying it. After looking at him critically and nodding to herself she shoved the book she'd been clasping tight between her hands onto his.

"You look after it. Dad doesn't like it when he sees me with it. I'll be back for it tomorrow."

She was gone before he could reply, fast despite her short little legs. On reflex he clutched the book, and though it was as old and as broken as the last time he'd studied it he thought it seemed more valuable somehow.

He'd keep it close, so nothing happened to it when Belle came to take it back tomorrow.

Though she had promised, and the book seemed to hold deep sentimental value to her, he hadn't really expected her to be back at all. But she was, and though he thought at first she'd simply take her precious little book and leave- he thought briefly about placing it atop a really high tree and have her climb after it but what if she fell and got hurt and never returned again?- she instead sat down- on his spot, yet again- and took out what turned out to be a long, long list of questions. About him.

The little poppet was a curious kitten.

Had this situation even remotely presented itself centuries ago he'd have traumatized the child beyond repair- though the lass seemed to be strong of will and hard to shake- but as things were he couldn't quite bring himself to chase away the one person who actually saw him. He played coy with the child then, answering her questions with cryptic little phrases and tasteless quips that, much to his surprise, elicited laughs out of her. He was rusty in the art of conversation but deal-making was in his blood, and words were his trade, so he used them to subtly pull the focus of attention from himself back to her. It became a tug-o-war of sorts, after a while, to see who could get more information from the other.

He learned quite quickly, mostly because he'd deduced it from their last encounter, that she was an only child and her mother had passed away. She in turn learned quickly that imps were born out of thin air, from battlefields or mass graves or places of deep anger and sorrow. They disclosed their own birth places after much haggling- he struggled to pronounce Australia, since her accent thickened so much when she said it- and time flew by. When she said goodbye without taking her book with her he thought at first it had been a mistake on her part.

It quickly became obvious that, as desperate as he secretly was for the tiny human's company to ease his wretched loneliness, so was she. She didn't quite say it, but he knew the look in her eyes, saw it whenever he caught a glimpse of himself on a body of water. She talked about her interests, mostly reading, and asked him question about the old country and magic and all the things he'd seen over the years, but she never really talked about herself. Not a word about her father, who was seemingly unconcerned about were his wee bairn spent most of her afternoons, sometimes coming back home muddied.

She did talk about other kids or about brothers or sisters. She talked about books a lot, and often brought one to show him something in it, not at all afraid of letting his black claws touch the frail paper. In all his years he'd never bothered to learn any human language or alphabet but he liked looking at the squiggles as Belle pointed them out while reading whatever struck her fancy. Most of her mother's books seemed to be on folklore and legends and reading those made it clear that humans had it all wrong. Completely wrong. He found it almost a personal affront and Belle was only too happy to needle him into correcting popular misconceptions.

With time, as Belle grew, Rumplestiltskin came to the altogether unpleasant and deeply unwelcome revelation that he… cared about the child. In a stand-offish, acquaintance-like way, of course, but it was as unacceptable as it was unshakeable. He'd tried, a few times, to burrow deep inside his well and slumber for a few months, or even years, but sleep wouldn't find him and soon he'd itch to go to the clearing and talk to the girl.

What he couldn't deal with, like always, he shoved aside and ignored. Instead of lingering on unpleasant thoughts Rumplestiltskin occupied himself teaching wee Belle runes, telling her about how he'd been born out of a veritable slaughter when, long ago, invading forces had clashed with a much smaller army of local men. Two great kings led those armies into battle and the death count rose to thousands, most of the casualties coming from the invaders. It lasted two days, a rare feat in that time, and by the time it was over the nearby stream ran red with blood and as the would-be conquerors prayed for mercy he'd drawn his first breath. Belle liked that story so much he told it often, and delighted in her wide, open eyes when he described the battle and the way she'd laugh at his crass quips and dark humour.

In his mind humans were still the enemy. They were still ignorant creatures that did not deserve the place they had in the world. But Belle was different. Special. And in his mind that made it okay that he felt the need to care for her. It made it alright to scour the forest for berries and fruits to give her when she visited, to pat her back when she looked sad and forlorn and to share trinkets of his collections with her. She had precious little in the way of material things, mostly old books and clothing that remained the same even as she grew taller- though not much. When she turned twelve and her father gifted her with a set of pyjamas and a backpack to replace the old one she used for school he pretended, bravely, that he didn't think her father was a lousy waste of space who could barely function, much less care for a small child. Belle took care of herself, cooked her own meals, walked herself to school and back and tried in general to be as well-behaved as possible. She felt sorry for her dad, so lost after her mother died, so pathetic and sad and hopeless.

Rumplestiltskin thought the man a spineless maggot not worth stepping on. But rather than let his mouth run off and upset the birthday girl he ducked towards the hiding place where he kept his collection of trinkets, deep inside his well, and retrieved the shiniest bauble he could find, the one made from real gold and a small but very real diamond. When he gave it to her, gruffly and without looking at her in the eye, he was taken aback when she launched herself forward and wrapped her arms around his skinny, bony frame. Up close she smelt like vanilla and she was warm, very warm.

It was hard to let go.

Belle spent so many of her afternoons with than when she didn't come two days in a row he grew worried. He thought of trying to sneak into town to look for her, but it was hard for him to breathe inside the human space, his skin itched and his lungs burned. So he paced instead, and worried, and thought up a thousand scenarios that might explain why she wasn't coming. The most likely explanation, the one that terrified him and angered him and made his feel like he wanted to disappear, was that Belle had grown up enough to forget him. He'd always known it would happen, that someday Belle would loose the special quality that allowed her to see him, that small flicker of light that he glimpsed sometimes, when the light hit her eyes just right.

It took until the seasons changed to gather the courage to go look for her. He unearthed from deep inside his belonging an old pair of hide boots, tall and made of supple leather, a fine offering in times gone by, and laced them up, however unwillingly, and when it was dark he left the woods. He reached out with his senses to catch a trace of Belle, probably slumbering somewhere out there but his nose couldn't find her scent anywhere and his magic could not detect her, even though he knew her name.

She wasn't there anymore.

She was _gone_.


	2. Chapter 2

Rumplestiltskin had lived long enough to become an expert in the art of forgetting. He'd forgotten a great many things, important things, had put them out of his mind and seemingly out of his life and so he did the same with Belle. He banned her name from his thoughts, buried anything that reminded him off her on the edge of the forest and went into deep slumber for what it could have been weeks, months or years. When he awoke the trees were bare and the air crisp like he liked. He took up his old hobbies, scaring adolescent humans who snuck into the forest looking for some privacy, growling from the bushes at hikers, shredding the tents of campers in their sleep and occasionally slaughtering the deer and other small game that would be silly enough to step into his forest without noticing his presence.

But it all seemed to require more energy than he had, more enthusiasm than he could muster. As seasons turned over and over time, which in his immortal eye usually passed too fast to notice, seemed to slow down and drag painfully. He began to entertain strange, morose thoughts that hadn't entered his mind in centuries. Suddenly forever seemed like a long, long time. Not as enticing as before, certainly. He began to spend more time in his bed of moss in the clearing, enjoying the sun on his scales and a respite from his darker musings.

Given that those hours sunning were all he looked forward to every day he was more than a little miffed when he discovered some human sprawled on his spot taking a nap. His fault, obviously, for neglecting his duties as of late. Humans were starting to lose the healthy fear of the forest he'd instilled in them. There were even poachers roaming the woods some nights, looking for small game and annoying him with their loud weapons. He carefully nudged the sleeping human with his foot but it barely moved. Its size indicated an adult, but a small one at that, and there was something faintly disconcerting about its chestnut hair and long lashes. His first instinct- to howl like some sort of animal and scare it away- was dismissed once the imp saw what rested on the human's exposed throat.

 _Belle's necklace._

Come to think of it, the human had Belle's hair too. And her nose. And perfectly-shaped ears. He crouched down, crawling closer and leaning down really close to sniff. Belle's scent clung to the human heavily, leaving him to acknowledge the truth. The human was Belle.

Belle had _grown up_.

A part of him was surprised she lived at all. He'd thought enough time had passed that her small mortal life would've been over for sure. But thought it was clear that Belle had aged her skin was still unwrinkled, her hair full of colour. She looked, she looked…

Gorgeous.

Beauty was hardly something he found himself thinking about, specially in relation to humans. To him they all looked mostly the same, pale-skinned, mediocre in appearance as they were in everything else. As an imp he'd only ever been attracted to blood and violence and darkness. He'd never had other urges or even faint curiosity for any form of lust other than blood-lust.

But even though he knew very little about beauty it was clear Belle had grown up to be the epitome of it. He let one finger slowly trace a blue vein visible on her inner wrist and marvelled at the softness of her skin. Her lips were lush and redder than he remembered and her face had lost the baby fat, acquiring angles that he didn't remember seeing there before.

She'd come back. Beautiful and old and completely unable to see him now. When she opened her eyes that spark he'd seen wouldn't be there and she'd look right past him as if he didn't exist. It was a horrible thought. He wondered, resentfully, why she hadn't stayed away. Why she'd come back to torment him, to remind him of his loneliness. Of how no one believed in him anymore and the world was losing its colour and he had no place to call his own any-

"Rumple?"

When her eyes opened at first they were soft and warm, if a little bit confused. She blinked quickly, trying to adjust to the sunlight, a hand coming up to shade her face. He stumbled back, falling on his rear as he sought to distance himself from her. A hand shot up to wrap around his skinny wrist and he froze at the contact, like a deer caught in headlights. Belle's eyes were still impossibly blue and as she studied him, mouth slightly parted and breathing harsh, he caught a glimpse of the old spark. She was looking at him, touching him, like she was still a child and they had parted ways but yesterday.

"You're _real._ "

The hand holding his wrist tightened its grip slightly before there was a rustling of clothing and suddenly Belle was lurching forward gracelessly, colliding with him and knocking the both of them into the ground. She was heavier than he remembered, warm from the sun, and her weight on him felt heavenly. He wrapped his arms around her, the gesture possessive and frightened, as if he was afraid she'd leave him like she had once, and his claws caught on the delicate fabric of her blouse, tearing. They spoke over each other, Belle commenting on his appearance and the feel of his scaly skin- "Just as I remembered!"- and him trying and failing to ask her where she'd been, why she'd left him behind. But she looked so thrilled to see him, to be back with him- her body trembled with excitement, making his shiver with something else, something similar but not _quite_ \- that he couldn't bear to lash out at her, to recall the anger and the hurt he'd felt in her absence. But he was unable to contain the question itself, which had been on the tip of his tongue for years now.

"Why did you leave, Belle? I looked for you in the village but you were gone."

They'd shifted so they lay side by side, a tangle of green-gold and pale white limbs bathed in sunlight. Belle brushed the hair back from his face and picked leaves out of it, the gesture strangely intimate. She'd groomed him before, many times, but it felt different now.

"My gran got sick. Cancer. Dad decided to move back to Australia to take care of her. It was a rather rushed affair and with dad always with me I couldn't get out. I thought it'd be for a little while, like a vacation, so it wouldn't matter much, but when dad enrolled me in a new school I knew it wasn't so."

Her eyes were watering, but she refused to blink and let the tears fall. Brave lass, his Belle. And stubborn.

"When I knew I wasn't coming back I tried to pretend I'd made you up. It was easier that way, it hurt less if I just thought I had stopped seeing an imaginary friend. But deep down inside I always remembered. You're a bit hard to forget."

Her laugh was sort of snuffly, a bit like a sob, but he joined her nevertheless with his customary giggle.

She kept on talking then, about going to college and becoming a librarian. About her dad's car accident a few years after her grandmother passed away, and how his life insurance had allowed her to go out and see the world. He listened avidly as she told him of her travels, her adventures, and her eyes shone so blue her skin look almost unnaturally pale in comparison.

Belle remained with him until it became too cold for her frail human skin to stay out, but she came back the next day, and the day after that. In many ways it was surprisingly easy to pick things up where they'd left off. Belle brought books to read to him and asked him in turn to tell her stories about his long life. She was just as skinny as before, if not more, so he brought her fruits and nuts and water from the creek to drink and lent her his furs and pelts to keep warm.

And so things were like before in many ways. In others, however, things were completely different. Awkward, in a way. Whereas before talking to Belle had felt natural now it seemed harder. He noticed, in a strangely fascinating way, that he became tongue-tied whenever she got close enough to him. He got the urge to both scramble back and lean closer and it was maddeningly confusing. Something roils in his stomach when he caught her scent and sometimes it was fluttery and timid and others almost feral. It was as if a part of him itched desperately and he wished to scratch but he didn't know where.

He tried. Scratching, that was. His claws hurt his scales, and all he ended up with were bald patches where he'd clawed himself raw.

Whatever it was it settled to a simmering ache in the pit of his stomach and a tug a bit lower. It felt a bit like the pull of blood-lust that he got when he scented blood in the air and a shiver of anticipation ran down his spine, but at the same time it was vastly different.

She slept more than she did as a child, often falling asleep while they talked of this and that. He pretended to be supremely annoyed by it, of course, but in secret he found it oddly endearing that she felt comfortable enough around him to fall asleep. As the days grew colder Belle took to snuggling beside him, wrapped in furs and sometimes tugging him down with her, her half-slumbering body seeking out his own warmth. It felt… strange. Not unpleasant as he always thought touch to be. There was comfort in it, and a possessive thrill. He wondered how many human males probably looked at Belle and wondered what it'd be to be held by her in such a way, to feel her soft and pliant beneath them, around them.

Adult Belle had one more difference from her wee version: she had a secret. It was big and tucked so closely to her heart he could only catch glimpses of it every now and then, a sort of mark hovering about her, taunting him. His little friend was lying to him and she was very good at it. Then again she always had been. She'd grown up lying to her father about every little thing that bothered her, afraid to be a burden, to make him worry. She'd lived and breathed that lie every day for years and he had no doubt she'd used that skill with others to hide what she thought were her flaws, the things in her she saw as ugly. But she'd never lied to him, not back then. Wee Belle had been an open book to him, he had known everything, down to the most unpleasant aspects, what she kept even from herself.

This Belle was guarded and he didn't care for that. He wanted all of her, like before only more. There was more Belle now, more experience and complexity and flesh and blood and he wanted it all.

Thoughts like that usually led his mind to sex. Ever since Belle had returned almost all mental paths seemed to lead there. He remembered entertaining a healthy curiosity for it in his early days as an imp. He'd spied humans going at it but it had seemed to him, at the time, graceless and deeply unsatisfying. A lot of grunting, a lot of sweating- both things he generally approved off- but not much else.

Now, however, he seemed to be warming up to the idea. His body certainly was, taking into account how instinctively it sought to mould itself to Belle's whenever he held her in her sleep. It happened more and more, which led him to suspect that whatever she was keeping from him was keeping her awake at night. So some afternoons, when he saw her nodding off, he grumbled and acted offended and declared he was not in the habit of entertaining people who weren't appreciative of his efforts. Then he'd command her to sleep so she could be clear-headed when he told her his best stories and Belle, following his lead, would apologize profusely, comment on his generous nature and make no comment as, about fifteen minutes after she'd curled up beside him when, it was clear she was having problems sleeping, he joined her. Sometimes he ran his claws through her hair, which he knew she found soothing, and the amount of care he put into making sure he didn't scratch her almost made her cry. Other times he crooned to her, making his voice low and mellifluous, pouring a bit of his remaining magic into it. When Belle was getting closer to sleeping she snuggled closer to him and a few minutes later she was out like a light.

The simmering heat in his belly would flare up then, spread across his body and make him ache all over. But it was a pain that felt too good, a pain he could live with forever. And when he looked around he could see the world had regained its colour. He felt energized, wrapped around Belle, as if she charged him up. He began making plans about chasing the poachers away from the forest and the necking couples and the nosy hikers.

When winter truly set in it seemed to take a toll on Belle. No coat or scarf seemed to be enough to keep her skin from feeling like ice and though she seemed to be braving it just fine Rumplestiltskin was determined that this would be her last unpleasant winter.

"I'll make you a coat out of my best furs and pelts. They need some work, of course, but I'll have plenty of time till next year. It'll be the warmest thing you've ever had on, just you wait. I'll start right away."

Belle frowned, her nose scrunching up in a way he thought made her look like a rabbit.

"You shouldn't bother."

She smiled and made a gesture as of to dismiss the subject but she wouldn't look at him in the eye.

"No bother. If it'll make you feel better you can always bake me some apple tarts to compensate."

Though adult Belle didn't seem to eat much she cooked like he imagined only heavenly creatures did and he wolfed down whatever she deemed to put in front of him. His sweet tooth had been both a welcome and unwelcome surprise.

"It'd be a waste, Rumple." He gazed at her in confusion, not understanding, but she still wouldn't look at him. "Just drop it."

He saw it then, in the bruises underneath her eyes, in the shadowed portion of her face. Her secret.

" _What aren't you telling me?_ "

His words were barely more than a hiss, his demeanour changing completely. There was something wrong, terribly wrong, and she was keeping it from him. She reached out to touch him, try to calm him down, but he flinched away, baring his teeth. Belle sighed, leaning back against the trunk of a tree and rubbing a hand across her face.

"Don't be like that."

Her words made him even angrier. A small bubble of doubt, which had popped into his gut the moment she'd returned and had grown in size ever since, suddenly burst inside him and he knew, he knew, the secret she kept from him.

"You won't be around next winter, will you? You're leaving again."

 _Leaving me_ , he wanted to add but didn't. There was pride in him left, after all.

"It's not… it's more complicated than that. I… I don't want to leave you, but-"

"Little Belle got out of this town and saw the world. And after a taste of that why bother going back to this old place to stay?" He fell back on his mocking on instinct, relying on giggles and amused cruelty to protect himself.

"It's not like that at all."

Colour rose on her usually pale cheeks and her eyes flashed fire. For a brief moment she seemed to be telling the truth, to be full of self-righteous fury.

"How is it then, _human_?"

She deflated before his eyes, the energy she seemed to have summoned from nowhere leaving her. She looked tired.

 _Tired of me._

"Leave."

"Rumple, please-"

"That's what you're going to do anyway, so why not speed things along? Leave."

"If you'd just-"

His magic might have diminished considerably over the years but it hadn't completely vanished. Using his anger as a powerful fuel he summoned strong gusts of wind, remembering the power of showmanship, and made the already-cloudy sky darken more.

"I said LEAVE."

A lightening bolt struck a nearby tree and for the first time in his life he saw genuine, naked fear in Belle's eyes. She stumbled upright, almost tripping as she quickly picked her way out of the forest, in her haste leaving behind the book she'd been sharing with him. He grabbed it and, in a fit, tore it to shreds, finding comfort and satisfaction in the way the binding gave into his claws and the pages scattered around him.

This is what he needed, he thought. Destruction and carnage and chaos, not meddling little human girls making a fool out of him. And with that thought in mind he stalked towards his well, dug up his collection of trinkets and curiosities and tore through it, smashing anything breakable, tearing anything his claws could sink into and setting fire to the rest. It lasted minutes or hours, he wasn't sure, and by the time he was done there was precious little left and he was exhausted.

He oscillated during the next days between a sluggish apathy, a desire to burrow inside his well and sleep till the world stopped spinning, and periods of intense anger. Humans ruined everything and little by little they had taken everything from him. His magic first, his home later and Belle… Belle had taken something too. He didn't know what but he felt it missing, felt a hollow where whatever Belle took with her should be. And she'd also left something behind, something that churned unpleasantly right below his stomach in that place where before he'd felt nothing.

Humans were trouble and Belle was the most troublesome human of all. He was lucky to be rid of her in any case and he told himself that repeatedly, specially on days where he swam in apathy and the idea of getting up never crossed his mind. He hated those days and how more and more difficult it was to crawl his way out of them.

He was deep in the middle of one such day, curled up inside his well determined to turn his back on the world and everything in it when the scent of blood reached his nostrils. That alone made him lift his head slightly to catch a bit more of the scent. Human, he realized with a spark of interest. Human and nearby. Beneath the stench of blood he could detect traces of gunpowder and the mixture of scents took him back to when he'd first drawn breath as an imp. That had been the scent his nose had first caught.

It was enough to get him on his feet and prowling the forest. The poachers were at it again and they'd mistaken some poor sod in the forest for a deer. The bastard was bleeding fast, the scent of their blood was thick in the air. He followed it easily, catching a glimpse of the retreating poacher, clearly more eager to save his own hide than to assist whoever he'd left bleeding out in the middle of the forest. Humans could always be counted upon to be selfish.

"Well, well, what have we-"

Taunting men in the brink of death had once been a favourite pastime of his. Humans were so curious when dying, defiant some and scared others, many calling out to their mother or another loved one, some even confessing all manner of sins into the air, hoping for absolution from them. In the brink of death almost all humans could see him, even now, so he enjoyed crouching next to the dying and toying with them a little. Watching the light go out of their eyes was a beautiful thing too, in the way all dark things are.

Had it been anyone else lying on the dirt and blood he'd had a grand time. But he knew that small, thin body, and that chestnut hair. Knew how it'd shine red if the light caught it right. The body shook, the poor soul trying to breathe even as a sickly wet sound made it clear the lungs were filled with blood.

"No, no, no, no, no, no."

As he approached he was assaulted with the pungent smell of death. It was sweet, almost sickeningly so and he found himself feeling ill by just how good it smelt to him. Death usually did, but never this good. Belle dying was the best thing he'd ever smelt.

"Wake up, dearie, rise and shine."

He dropped to the floor next to her head and gently patted her cheek. He had to keep her awake, had to keep her talking, had to keep her with him. He didn't want to fade, didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live alone either. He wanted to be with her, always.

"Please wake up, Belle. Please. Don't leave me. Don't go."

It was impossible to pick her up without coating himself almost entirely in blood. She was light as a feather, still but for her few laboured breaths and the occasional twitching of her fingers but her eyes were open and so he pretended she was awake and could hear him.

"I never told you this because I think we're not supposed to. None of the others like admitting it, it's a secret shame we all like not to think about. I… I was human once. I died in that battle that saw me born as an imp. It's like that for all of the others like me, we all were once pink-skinned, soft and frail. Human. But our souls took the wrong path, held on to the earth and embraced whatever would keep them there."

He glanced around to see they'd made it to the middle of the forest, to a place completely barren. It smelt strongly of death and violence and loss. Of pain too, and regret. A battlefield of sorts, newer than most he'd been to, the dark magic perhaps too young, but also fresh. He laid Belle down carefully and viciously tore at her clothes, his claws making an easy job of it. In second she was naked, the skin not covered by blood or dirt shining white in the moonlight. Rumplestiltkin then gently held her face, turning it slightly so her eyes would find his.

"You have to want it. Belle, listen, please, you have to want it. Do you want to live?"

At first he thought he might be too late, but a few seconds later Belle blinked and her eyes focused on him.

"I don't… I don't wanna leave…"

"Good, good, there's a good lass. You have to want it Belle. And you have to think of something to hold on to. I had… I had a son. My Bae. Such a good lad. He was a wee bairn when I died, I didn't want to leave him alone. That's why I got lost and I held on to the dirt and the blood beneath me. Find something Belle, something you have, something you wanna hold on to and grip it tight."

He knew she had no family and she'd never mentioned any friends or other loved ones. Not any material possessions either, nothing to protect, to cling to possessively and never let go. He'd lose her.

He coated his fingers in her blood and painted old symbols, powerful symbols. Symbols to trap things, to root them to the spot, to keep them where they were. He painted symbols of possession and ownership, symbols of submission and surrender, and as the moon illuminated them they sunk into her skin. The magic of the ground beneath her responded to his hasty commands and wrapped itself around Belle, changing the soft, deathly pallor of her skin for a faint silver-gold hue, tinted her lips the colour of pomegranate and darkened her hair. Her pupils enlarged, the blue giving way to something a bit darker than red.

As a human Belle had been breathtaking. As as an imp Belle was maddening, a creature made of steel and ice, a force to be reckoned with. He could see the potential in her, the life she could lead if only she could hold on past the night, past the moonlight currently keeping her there. He'd seen many not make it, the half-borns that faded when the dawn came, too weak to cling to the world. So he sat down, cradled Belle close and rocked her back and forth, urging her to fight for her place, to refuse to go.

"I wanna stay…"

Belle's voice was huskier than usual but audible all the same. Rumplestiltskin sighed in relief.

"You can stay. You just have to think of a reason. Just a reason, Belle, something to tie yourself to. Tell me why you want to stay. Maybe friends or some place to protect…" His hold tightened around her as he thought of another possibility. "It's different for everyone. Don't fight it. Just… just pick something and let the magic guide you. Do what it comes natural."

When Belle wrapped her nude arms around him he was surprised to feel claws dig into his shoulder blades. In his arms she felt like Belle, but her scent was slightly different.

"I wanna stay with you."

She gripped him a little tighter, burrowing her head in the crook of his shoulder. Unlike his own scaly skin hers had acquired a sleek, slippery feel. He felt a tug in that area bellow his belly that only seemed to come alive for Belle and forced himself to concentrate. As far as he knew spirits couldn't tie themselves to spirits. But his magic didn't seem to be aware of that, busy as it was sniffing at Belle's transforming body and trying to sink into it, into her. He began to feel strange, dizzy and shaky and like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. The moonlight washing over them was suddenly too bright.

"I wanna be with you."

He barely registered when Belle removed his vest, but he sprang into awareness when her tongue darted out to lick his neck. The tug beneath his tummy turned into an overwhelming ache, and if it wasn't for his fear and confusion over whatever seemed to be taking over him he'd have revelled in the feeling.

" _Forever_."

She shifted, moving to straddle him and though a part of him was completely lost another part, a small part he'd forgotten long ago, seemed to know exactly what was going on.

"Belle, I… I don't know…"

His high-pitched voice betrayed his panic but instead of pulling away Belle simply raised a hand to gently pat his cheek. It was bloodied, like most of her, so he tentatively licked it, feeling her rumble in approval.

"You do. I can make your remember."

Her skin seemed to burn his whenever they touched, but pain had never felt sweeter. When she stroked her fingers across his mouth he obediently opened up and took them into his mouth, savouring the blood in them. That he could do, that was instinctual and so when he finished sucking her fingers clean he moved his mouth up her arm, thoroughly bathing the skin until it was spotless again. She guided his head down next, to her collarbone, and he licked and mouthed at her skin, lapping at her blood greedily.

When she attempted to move his head back up he grunted and disregarded her hands, busy as he was making sure the underside of her left breast was completely clean. A second later he felt a harsh tug on his hair and with a whimper he acquiesced to the unspoken demand, lifting his head. He was rewarded when her lips pressed against him. He'd seen humans kiss, many times, but he still had no clue how to go about it. Her hands came up to cup his jaw, tilting his head just so and then pressing against his nape, urging him closer. She moved her lips over his almost savagely and after a while he caught on. It was a battle, a fight with teeth and lips and tongue. He began mimicking her actions, looking for the correct rhythm she was setting, looking to submissively follow.

Dimly he was aware that her hands trailed down his shoulders, leaving deep, angry scratches in their wake before settling over his thighs, her claws making short work of his roughly-sewn trousers. The night air felt cold on his newly-exposed skin and when he pressed closer to Belle to catch her warmth he realized his cock was fully erect. It'd happen a handful of time over the years, in situations of extreme excitement, but it hadn't ached as it did now, hadn't felt like he was about to explode if he didn't do… something.

 _Anything._

His fidgeting alerted her of his predicament and in one fluid motion she had him on his back, arms spread to the side and pinned down. She looked hungry and dangerous, like a predator preparing to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. But there was something else in her eyes, something softer and warmer and comfortingly familiar. And he knew then that, whatever the reason why Belle had told him she had to go she truly hadn't wanted to. And now she didn't have to leave him ever again if she wanted to. If she chose to to stay.

When she took him in hand he almost thought he'd go mad from the sensations, which he couldn't tell were pleasurable or painful anymore, and his hips bucked almost against his will. A moment later she positioned his member carefully beneath her sex and lowered herself ever-so-slowly, inch by bloody inch, until her hips were flush against his. And suddenly he understood why humans made such a fuss about sex, why it could topple kingdoms and make reasonable people behave like lunatics. Dimly he wondered how humans ever did anything else, specially when Belle started rocking back and forth and slightly up and down, clenching some inner muscles that must have been designed specifically to drive him mad.

Some feral animal started howling nearby and it took a while before Rumplestiltskin realize it was him, but above him Belle was moaning and riding him harder than before so he continued to scream. He pleaded with her and cursed at her, told her he was happier without her and nothing without her and when she took pity on him and placed his hands on her hips and he found he could thrust up and meet him halfway he thought there had never been a more perfect moment in his entire life. The sensations kept piling one over the other and when he was sure he couldn't be made to endure more the feeling burst. Above him Belle cried out his name, letting her head fall back so that the moon bathed her completely and he knew then that she'd broken too, that he had broken her.

When it finally passed he felt weak as a kitten and sighed in bliss when Belle cradled his head and pressed it against the valley of her breasts. Her claws delicately combed through his hair, the gesture more motherly than anything else and he welcomed it. When he finally opened an eye he saw the moon was gone and the pale light of pre-dawn bathed the forest. He tightened his grip on Belle, his Belle finally, his and his alone, and thought about all the things he'd teach her and all the things they'd do. The future unrolled before his eyes, neverending for the first time in a long time and he smiled and giggled against Belle's skin, shivering when he felt her start to lap at the many scratches on his skin.


End file.
